Synonymous
by prodigale
Summary: Ryoma contemplates his worth outside tennis — or the lack of it.


SYNONYM.

Apply standard P.O.T. disclaimer here.

Ryoma contemplates his worth outside tennis --- or the lack of it.

----

Sometimes he cannot help but wonder – is tennis all but he is worth?

The girls that fawn over him, the friends he socialize and make – they all stem from the tennis courts. Girls fall for him because he is the number one American tennis player in his times, the one to make other seniors fall over with his stunning display of tennis potential that shines beyond jaw-dropping intensity. He scoffs when girls ask him out – did they truly believe that if he wasn't as good looking, as famous as he is the tennis prodigy that the international media proclaims – they would actually like him? They are merely mortals who clamor for the fame that they will attain when they attach themselves to _his _name.

They think he is blind to himself being used as a pawn; a tool. But he isn't.

He isn't deaf either, to the words they say. What they point out when he's out there on the tennis courts with racket in hands.

"Your personality shines when you're playing tennis."

In other words, Echizen Ryoma acknowledges his name being synonymous to tennis. It is now a worldwide _fact. _People are harsh. They make it this way.

He does not know why. But people changes their expressions when they face him at the opposite end of the court. It is as if he acquires something new when he steps onto the green lawN or solid concrete – something that imbues fear in his opponents. It makes him feel powerful ; it makes them scared. It is a raw, thrilling sensation that scares him.

It makes him come alive; it _burns _like hell.

And adrenaline-pumping and awfully scared, he savors that.

The emptiness in his eyes when he bounces the ball against his palm – the awareness of his red wristband dripping droplets of perspiration that glimmers back in the scorching sun.

He _likes _that kind of power when he steps on the courts ; like he can shed every other identity his person claims when he is under the sun, burning his skin (sometimes, he wishes it can practically burn away his entire entity, but it doesn't happen). When he holds the racket, he becomes another _he. _And whoever watches him – he does not know why – respects and nearly worships whatever skills and agility he gives.

Sometimes, they learn to call him _god _on the courts.

That moment is his alone – sometimes it makes him believe that he truly is happy. He forgets the inadequecies in his life, the several holes in his heart that he knows have existed since god knows when, the utter loneliness that claws away in his heart sometimes ---- his fingers grip the base of his tennis racket, firm on the grip tape. He forces himself to bask in the ambience. It is easy to do so. Especially when practically everyone out there surrounding the courts are cheering for you, rooting for you. Girls scream your name; hold banners out that capitilize your initials in bold black paintbrushes. They don't forget the heartshapes doodled all over the place. They know you'll hate it – it's so red, so pink, so _girly. _But they do it, anyway.

He wonders sometimes if he should thank them for giving him such (temporary) contentment --- wants to seize this moment and freeze time forever and ever --- or should he hate them precisely because of such joy, such climax, only to so cruelly snatch away the stage from beneath him thereafter when they disappear and leave him so alone, alone and drowning.

Ryoma loves this moment; loves the him that plays tennis; loves _tennis --- _

_(loves the looks people give to him when he executes Twist Serve, when he strikes yet another ace---- _

_Loves the fear, loves the resentment, the envy in their voices, the jealousy in their eyes ....) _

And hates himself, hates tennis, hates _everything _that gave him and blessed him the tennis racket in his hand, too – for precisely the same reason.

Because sometimes he relies so much on these tennis courts, the racket, the Fila cap sitting on the mane of his dark hair so much; depend nearly his entire life on the emotions emanating from the opponent right at the other end of where he stands, on the fangirls that scream his name, his _meaning of existence, _he cannot help but contemplate sometimes where he stands _outside _this place.

He tries, just once.

And it scares the hell out of him.

When it does happen, it doesn't stop coming back full circle to hit him hard in the face – again, and again, and again.

He realizes it happens more so frequently when the tennis season is over, and nationals are only about to round next year. With more time to spend in the classroom and on homework, the emphasis suddenly, abruptly changes so awkwardly from sports, tennis, competition...to people, socializing and making _friends. _

Outside the tennis courts, stepping out –

It pains him to see how the people that look at him, does so differently.

No fear, no envy, no jealousy --- nothing to go about it when you're no longer known as the tennis prodigy when there are no tennis courts.

In other words,

Ryoma Echizen is synonymous to tennis.

And without tennis, without racket in his hand, without fangirls screaming his name precisely because they want him to win in _tennis a_nd just because it's _tennis a_lone, without the opponent on the other side to make him feel like he's worthy of being just _worshipped, looked upon, respected, _it scares him how he is suddenly....

He crushes his History test paper in his hands, and closes his eyes so tight so the tears don't come.

He wishes tennis practice will start again. His fingers itches to hold his favorite racket again.

Then maybe, he'll be able to have a better distraction --- to allow him to _ignore _the (so many, goddammit) holes in his heart, the emptiness, the pain, the bloody ache blooming in the depths of his stomach.

Tennis was, is, always has been, his life. His reason for living.

His life support unit.

Ryoma looks around his surroundings, and notices people passing him by.

Nobody looks at him when he's an ordinary boy.

Outside, he is Ryoma (drop all tennis-prodigy labels, and there is suddenly the loss of grandiosity, majesty that otherwise graces his usually aloof, smug behavior) ---

He walks home that day, stumbles into a mirror in a departmental store, and notices he holds no racket, but simply a typical schoolboy's sling bag slung around his shoulder, wearing an old torn pair of shoes, and the Seigaku Gakuen school uniform all messy and dishevelled on him.

So, ordinary, and plain.

He forces himself to smile.

And doesn't fail to notice how unmistakably lonely he feels.

Nobody looks at him when he walks home that day, and days after---

Tennis season comes around. He picks up the racket again, steps onto courts, and all of a sudden, fangirls rave and yell his name, and opponents across tremble in fear. The media speaks his name again, and even reaches his father in America where he is known as the Samurai Junior, number one Japan child prodigy in his time.

He is only thirteen, and Echizen Ryoma knows fully then that he no longer is existing completely.

He is simply worth tennis --- no more.

And one cannot live when validation comes only at various times of the year, when existence is defined only by a weapon in your hand, and the cheers and screams that come and go occasionally-----

On his fourteenth birthday, Ryoma asks his senpais if he's simply worth tennis.

The squeeze in his heart, and the lone tear that he hastily clamors to scrub away is unmistakable when they all engulf him in a group bear hug. Tight, intimate and very, very _dear. _

Somewhere deep inside, he _wants _to believe he is wrong all these long, lonely years.

His heart cries out for a miniscule of hope – that he is worth more than just a racket in hand.

He makes just that birthday wish, and prays it _true. _

**Owari **

* * *

a/n:

I have just one question to myself. Why does no fics that I ever plan to write turn out the way I initially want it to??? Why? WHY WHY?

Okay, review anyway. Even though the ending was bad, bad, bad. Jeez.


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